The man slowly nodded, and Chaplin nodded with him. But then Chaplin turned the nodding into shaking his head no, which the man followed, also shaking his head no.

“That’s right. For you are not a wage slave. The four dollars is all they know how to reward you with. But your actual reward is—to make art. Comrades, so it is with all of us. ‘All is vanity’? Nonsense! The world is not ruled by chaos and homicide—such a worldview is despicable. Take their money! But art gives shape to the incompassionate and frigid world! Nothing is vanity! All for art!”

So ended Chaplin’s first political speech, a mélange of beliefs both real and imagined that took a hairpin turn. His head was throbbing. He crossed his arms and leaned against the oak tree behind him. He was thinking, “I have saved myself, I have saved myself,” the repetition like a pulse beat. He felt every ounce taken out of him, his entire weight given over to the lean. He was unprepared for a seismic shift, the feeling of tumbling across a ship’s deck, as the tree groaned, uprooted, its anchor chains dancing like startled arms, and, with a crash of branches, fell over.

Which was the full-stop punctuation his speech had lacked beforehand. He righted himself, dusted his linen jacket, tossed away the beard, carefully peeled away the glasses, and tried to smile as he checked his knees for permanent damage. No one was wondering about his values anymore—men were holding their sides and women were reduced to weeping. He nodded at them, assessing the effect of a routine. The fact was, at this moment, he wanted the world to love him forever so he could tell them, forever, what idiots they were for doing so.

7

It was later in the evening. Chaplin had taken off his shoes and his socks, and rolled his trousers. He had no idea what time it was. The sun had set. There was a scattering of those recently planted dead trees to walk through, a weak forest that begged to be mighty enough for a trail of breadcrumbs. He walked toward the sound of waves.

He was still thinking, “I saved myself,” but with less insistence. He had to get away from the feeling of people, but he didn’t want to go home.

On the other side of the trees was the open stretch of sand. At his feet, driftwood, knobs of kelp, flecks of tar, tiny seashells, and all around him, now that he was twenty or thirty yards from the house, was a bubble in the fog, as if he were traveling with his own dome of solitude.